


Intern

by Anonymous



Category: Late Night Host RPF, Late Night with Conan O'Brien (TV)
Genre: EVERYONE - Freeform, F/M, I'm Sorry, I'm really truly sorry, It's like 1999, Out of everything I've ever done I'm the most ashamed of this, Single Conan, There is sexual stuff but it's honestly VERY mild, Which is out of character for me, You're an intern, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's 1999. You have your dream opportunity, an internship at the Late Show with Conan O'Brien.This is not beta read I literally didn't have the strength to re-read it after I wrote it I apologize for grammatical issues. Please tell me and I'll correct them!
Relationships: Conan O'Brien/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24
Collections: Anonymous





	Intern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [conanchristopher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conanchristopher/gifts).



> @Conanchristopher We've literally never met or talked but your unabashed horniness inspires me on the daily. I hope this pleases you
> 
> Godspeed

Six Four is tall. Too tall. Six four is the kind of tall where you think, “I can imagine how tall that is”, and you’re wrong. Only 5% of the male population in the _world_ were over Six four, and you couldn’t help but gawk for a second at the one standing in front of you. You were pretty used to your height… it had been a good while since someone made you feel well and truly small. Not just in statue but personality.

Stupidly long legs, stupidly high pompadour, stupidly bright smile. He took up the whole damn room. Wide, open posture and cocky, permanent expression. Everything about him screamed “Look at me”. And you did, because hell-you were an intern, you’re here to take orders.

“Feeling good?” Hair and makeup lady asked, bustling around, adding the final touches.

“Not at all!” he smirked, then feigned distress. “Show’s getting cancelled tonight, I can feel it!”

She shook her head and combed over his sideburns one last time, slapping his arm when he over-dramatically winked at her. “You say that every night.”

The lady turned to you and smiled warmly. “Thanks for the coffee, dear. You can set it on the table there,” She pointed roughly to beige waist-high cart on wheels, it was packed with beauty supplies. “I’ll get to it when I’m done babysitting.”

You felt caught, somehow, despite the fact everyone was too busy with their own tasks noticed you staring. You obliged with a nod, setting down the coffee you had retrieved carefully on the cart. Still, you couldn’t stop yourself from simply turning and standing there in the corner, watching in awe as you heard the music begin to swell.

“And now, here’s your host!”

You breath hitched in your throat as you watched him smooth the front on his suit before the opening in the curtains. He wiggled his jaw in a less than appetizing way (warming up his facial muscles?) with a full body jitter, he stilled and plastered a smile on his face.

“Conan, O’Brien!”

You watched silent from the corner as he threw the curtains out of the way, glimpsing briefly a smiling and cheering audience and a halo of studio lights. The curtains heavy fabric swayed back together quickly, obscuring his tall frame, and you heard the monologue begin.

You felt the oxygen make its way back into your blood again as you finally let out the breath you’d been holding. Jeez, it’s not like you were on stage. You shook your head quickly to clear it and turned to find your coordinator. You had a job to do too, after all.

So this was Show Biz. Or being an Intern for show biz. You did a lot more running than you initially anticipated, but hell be damned were you ever going to be late for anything. Grabbing food, making calls, organizing papers and double checking dates by just about everyone in the whole damn building.

You had the coffee order down to a damn science, only one or two people ever changed theirs, so you barely had to glance at the list before you knew what you were doing. Getting coffee had been nerve wracking at first, but with enough passes under your belt you came to enjoy that part of your day. The car ride was short and the lights were in sync enough that it was never too much of a hassle. The people at the shop regarded you with just barely less disinterest than everyone on the set, and that was a tiny bit of much needed attention.

In the shop you got to the front of the line and realized you had left the list in your car, you panicked for a second before realizing it was a pretty standard day, so you just ordered from memory. The barista gave you a nod of acknowledgement, recognizing you and the order from a previous run. You smiled politely and stepped out of the kiosk to wait for your name to be called.

You sort of felt like… you had a routine. Which was crazy, considering how hectic everything was all the time at the studio. People would rush around looking for each other, hyped up on caffeine mixed with god knows what and sleep deprived out of their minds. Still, your brain found this way of clinging to the tiny bits of stability it could find, checking in, the coffee runs, lunch, dinner, showtime, whatever after hours thing would inevitably need doing. And, well, … Conan.

The man was a lighthouse, impossible to miss. Anytime he passed that part of the day was imprinted in your brain. Like the imprint of a bright light still left on your retina, his energy lingered wherever he passed.

One time, in a hallway, he said “excuse me”. You felt dumb out of your mind for remembering that, but it was the only time he had ever said something directed at you and only you. And it was a nice thing, too, however innocuous and absent minded. Being as lanky as Mr. O’Brien probably lent itself to knocking into people all time, it was likely just an unconscious habit. Still, you clung to the moment daftly. The memory had this pleasant happy buzz to it that you needed just a little hit of sometimes.

Hearing your name be called, you snapped out of your trance and maneuvered your keys to take the coffee trays while still being able to unlock your car. A new, very valuable habit that had taken you far to long to learn. You expertly guided the eight or so cups through the shop and out the door, far too attuned at this point to how much jostling the carboard could handle before the contents started to spill. Expert coffee lacky. You were getting there.

The ride back was as uneventful and pleasant as always, and you pulled the coffee into the building in no time, setting in down in the common area of the studio. You set about delivering the orders you knew by heart and doubled back to the list (which you had thankfully remembered to pocket the second time around) to check who had made the last few orders. You paused when you realized you had ordered one too many.

Shit, well, that was better than ordering one too few. You did a mental tally and realized that was the order for Conan’s personal assistant. You walked swiftly to her desk to check, and, upon seeing a cup already sitting there expectantly, huffed a sigh of defeat. They always emphasized that interns could get coffee on runs too if the wanted it, but you never had. It felt like a faux pas, like someone inviting you to stay longer when they obviously want you to leave. Sure, you could do it. If you were a dickwad. But here was an extra cup just sitting in your hand. Don’t want to waste company money, might as well?

Hell. It was pretty good.

On your delivery rounds not two weeks later you heard a mild commotion from the assistant’s desk, you peered in to see, ah, Conan, his assistant, and one of your fellow interns. The two higher ups were good heartedly berating the young intern, who looked like he was about to melt back into his shoes.

“It’s one coffee order, the most important one!” Conan barked, still with a joking smile on his face as he waved his arms aggressively.

“C’mon give him a break…” The assistant laughed, giving the intern a reassuring tilt of her head.

“I’m v-very sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.” The intern apologized, rubbing his hands together nervously.

A devilish grin bloomed on Conan’s face. “Sir? Yeah ok, kid, you’re alright.”

“It’s really not a problem, he’s just giving you a hard time.” The assistant reached out and patted the intern’s shoulder. “Conan’s done a lot worse. Don’t let it start tripping you up, ok?”

Your brain made a leap in processing, and before you could stop yourself you piped in, “Excuse me?”

All three turned and looked at you, and your brain, the very one that had just pushed you into this mess, had the audacity to go completely blank. “Oh, uhm, sorry, but are you missing the coffee order that usually comes here?”

Conan nodded, apparently not too appalled buy your butting in. “Einstein can’t count.” He explained, pointing to the intern.

“I have the same order right here.” You explained, holding out the cardboard cup that felt way, way to heavy in your hand.

The assistant looked bewildered. “Why?”

“Obviously she’s psychic, don’t be so rude.” Conan berated, giving his assistant a light hit on the arm.

“I got it extra on accident a few days back,” You spluttered, not entirely sure you were breathing. “I tried it and liked it, so I’ve been getting it since.”

All three started at you in silence, you couldn’t read any of their faces. Shit, it was too hot in there. You felt like your collar was too tight.

“O-oh I didn’t drink from this, if that’s what you’re thinking, I just got back and it’s generally really hot so-” Were you blinking too much? Is that even a thing people can do?

“That’s very kind, thank you.” The assistant finally said, cutting you off from making a further fool of yourself. “Only if you don’t want it, though.”

You gave a relieved smile. “Oh, I’m not too much for coffee anyway. But, you know, when in Rome…” You went to hand the Assistant the cup, but she waved her hands at you.

“Oh, darling, that’s not my order! I quit caffeine. That’s Conan’s.” You froze and turned your head just barely to where he was looming. You had stepped closer now and his height was even more intimidating. His expression had gone from unreadable to obvious distaste, and you thought maybe you would pass out from fear.

He took a step towards you, narrowing his eyes. “An intern, copying my coffee order.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself but were too dumbstruck to know what to say.

“Don’t you know who I am?” He was less than a foot from your face. The freckles that usually lent his skin to slightly uneven tone that could be mistaken as a tan (well, tan for a sheet white Irishman) were now clear as day, every damn one of them.

“I. Am.” He leaned in a little closer gritting his teeth through the words, and you instinctively moved leaned away.

“-A man with excellent taste, apparently.” He stepped back, grabbing the coffee from your frozen hand and opening his arms in a “Hey, check me out” sort of manor. He took a swig from the cup and nodded to himself. “Oh yeah, that’s it alright.”

The stagnant air in the room suddenly was circulating again, the lights seemed brighter, the energy swirling. You absently remembered to breathe and took a second to recollect yourself.

“Apologize, asshole.” The assistant berated as Conan chuckled to himself. “You scared the shit out of her. We need good interns you know.”

Conan raised up his hands in defense, still giggling, but gave you a genuine smile. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Thank you very much.”

“O-of course.” You nodded and turned on your heel to run out of there. Gods knows you were never getting involved with people above your paygrade again. Paygrade being a lose term. And by lose term you meant you weren’t getting payed.

For the rest of the day your senses were on high alert, like around every corner was a towering ginger ready to lay into you for any word you said. The more you tried to zone out and work business as usual, the more your brain helpfully brought up the image of Conan’s face far too close to yours.

He had been there. Barely a foot from your face. You had felt the ghost of his exhale on your cheeks. He had been looking right at you, saying words directly to you. But Conan was always joking around, he had to do that sort of thing to at least twenty people a day. He probably kept a tally in his office to make sure he reached his weekly quota.

Still. There was an undeniable moment where Conan O’Brien _saw and talked to you_. And that made a dangerous kind of nervous energy swirl in your gut.

You swore to god, if this awakened anything you were going to quit.

So, it awoke a few things. A Few less than ideal things. A few waking up in the middle of the night unpleasantly sweaty things.

And you did not quit, because honestly this internship would have to be pried from your cold dead hands. But it did make things around the studio a little more tedious.

The jitters when you saw Conan were of a different breed now, and you want to squash them under your heels but you just had to smile politely and act like you had never had a single impure thought in your life. Observations about his appearance that the man himself would often play for jokes slowly began to always have the afterthought, “but it’s cute”.

Like, “Oh, his legs are very long- but that’s kinda cute, isn’t it?” or “Oh, his lips are rather thin, but it’s pretty cute, huh?”

You had never really had to be around someone after you’d dreamt them railing you within an inch of your life before, and it wasn’t wholly unpleasant. But, unfortunately, the bits that weren’t unpleasant was usually you being horny on the down low. It was very unprofessional. You needed to stop staring and making excuses to walk by where he was and just do your job like a sane human being.

Unfortunately, just when you made this resolution for the fourteenth time- _And were really going to be serious this bit around_ \- you noticed something. Before, your coffee orders had always fluctuated a little bit. You weren’t entirely sure how they dictated them to different interns, but you rarely delivered to the same people more than twice a week.

But every day. Every day. You delivered a very familiar order to a very familiar assistant’s desk.

You started out thinking, “Oh, this must be a coincidence. Don’t read into it.”

Then you went to “Hmm. Maybe read into it a little bit.”

And now you were at “There’s a very tall ginger man trying to kill me.”

Logically, you could deduce Conan O’Brien was a human being. But, the irrational, very self-conscious part of your brain became convinced he was aware of your poorly tamed thirst and was punishing you for it. These very thoughts were circling as you walked the coffee to his assistant’s desk, and, just as you were about to set it down, heard a chipper whistle.

“She’s out today, feel free to bring it right in here.” Your body parts were failing to move in the way that they normally do, but you somehow managed to carry yourself into his office.

“Thank you!” He smiled, taking the coffee from you and giving you a polite nod as he swiveled in his chair to set it down next to his computer monitor. “Say, what’s your next job?”

You blanked. “Sorry?”

He leaned his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands together and giving you a pointed grin. “What do you have to do next?”

“I don’t think…” You paused, wracking your brain but coming up empty. “I don’t think I’ve been told yet. If you want I can go ask my-”

He stopped you with the wave of his hand. “That’s just great, actually. Would you like to get me lunch?”

“…Pardon?”

“Lunch.” He repeated. “Sustenance. Nutrients. Third most important meal of the day.”

“Oh, uh, well yeah, of course, but…” You faltered on your words, finally resting on, “Me?”

“Well my assistant can’t do it; I’ve already tried asking her desk chair. Rude piece of shit.” Conan gestured to the empty desk outside his office, tone still light and unimposing.

You swallowed down the nerves bubbling in your chest, praying it didn’t make to loud a noise. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that. What, uh, what do you want?”

Conan beamed, then leaned back in his desk chair, one foot resting on the opposite knee. “Surprise me.” He picked up the coffee and mimed toasting it to you. “I trust your taste.”

“R-right away, yeah.” You nodded hurriedly and sped out of the office as quickly as you could without looking like you were running away. Which, you were, but you didn’t want everyone else to know that. Surprise him. Surprise him? What the fuck! This felt like a test.

In a last-ditch effort, you asked some nearby workers what he usually had. Thanking them profusely and apologizing for the intrusion, you wreaked your brain for restaurants you knew of that were nearby and good enough to present. You didn’t want a fast food chain, too cheap, but you couldn’t go too bougie either. Most of all, you needed to do it rather quickly.

Ho, Boy.

You passed, for lack of a better phrase. Settling on a nearby sandwich joint you were fond of, you picked a relatively inoffensive option that you had also had yourself, so you could vouge for the quality. You also selected an array of basically all the dressings they had to offer, just in case, with non on the sandwich itself.

You delivered it to him with a curt polite smile and then rushed away as quickly as you could after.

You didn’t interact with him for the rest of the day, which was comforting enough for the fact that he didn’t storm around to find you and chew you out for your poor taste. So it must have not been too bad.

The next day, you were surprised to hear his assistant wanted to speak with you. Your blood ran cold. Holy shit, what if you gave him food poisoning? No show tonight? The ratings plummet and the whole network goes under?

Ok that’s. That’s not realistic at all. But your nerves still spiked as you walked the long-carpeted hallway to where her desk was. Luckily, she greeted you with a smile, and most of the nerves dissolved. She gestured for you to sit down and you obliged, nervously fidgeting.

“I heard you did a good job filling in for me yesterday.” She raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed. “He wasn’t an ass this time, I hope?”

You shook your head sheepishly. “No, no, he was fine. I’m glad it worked out ok.”

“You know,” She picked up a pen and pointed it at you, a mischievous look on her face. “I would love not to get lunch for him every day.”

Ah. Was there any blood in your body? Where did it go? Did you hear that correctly?

The assistant leaned back with a laugh. “Relax, relax! You don’t have to say yes, I promise. It’s just a hassle because most of the calls go through me, and, well, he’s kind of a sought-after guy these days. If I’m not at the phone I can’t answer them.”

That made sense. This made sense. Well, most of it, besides the offering it to you part.

“Why, uh, why me?” You asked, shocked your voice still worked.

“Give yourself a little more credit.” The assistant chided. “You’re one of the most impactful interns we’ve ever had, you really made an impression with that coffee stunt.”

“Ah.” There was your blood, it was in your face, flushing your cheeks just a little to red to be cute.

“You’re well liked, and you’ve been shown to be responsible. If you wanted one, you might actually be able to get a real job here in the future.” Your ears were ringing with her praise, you had gotten so used to just being an extra face you were baffled to be considered “impactful” at all.

“I-Oh, wow, thank you so much.” You gave her a genuine smile, pushing back your hair with one hand. “I-If this is a legitimate offer than of course I’ll take it. Anything to help out.”

The assistant reached out and shook your hand, and you thanked god it wasn’t too clammy this early in the day. “As legitimate as they come,” She assured you. “Oh, and, generally there is an actual order to follow. It’s not guess and check every single day.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”

“I’ll have someone deliver them to your coordinator, thank you again.”

“Thank you!” You corrected, nodding at her again before getting up to leave.

You almost missed it in your haste, but you could hear her say, “He trusts you.” As you walked back out into the open hallways.

Trusts you. Conan O’Brien trusts you. You had a sudden recollection of last night’s dream and decided to file that revelation away for when you were no longer in public.

God, you were fucked.

It was a few weeks later, you were pretty into the swing of things, being Conan’s lunch errand girl. He’d only sprung the “Surprise me” stint on you once or twice since the first time, and his assistant had helpfully provided a few suggestions in the memo, along with an apology.

You flushed the day you realized he had asked for the same sandwich you had gotten him the first time and forced yourself to continue not reading into things. You were getting decently good at that now. Nothing means anything. Everything is ambiguous. Conan doesn’t even know who you are. Even though he actively says hi to you when you run into each-other about the studio and now addresses you occasionally by name. That means nothing. Everything means nothing. Don’t think about it.

You were getting ready to leave when one writer sheepishly asked if you’d stay and help around the studio to wrap things up for the night, it was going to be a late one and they were already one regular intern short. You agreed. Hell, it’s not like you had anything better to do. Conan made a noise akin to a chortle when he noticed you still around.

“Hey, Intern, the door is that way!” He pointed as he walked past you to the writers’ room. Ah, that was another thing. Despite proving he knew your name, he still called you “intern” just about every chance he got. It put all the interns in the area on edge and only added to the stupid swirling nerves in your stomach when you remembered he was literally your boss.

Not that you, say, wanted him to _stop_ calling you that. That would be a bit a bit of an overkill, huh? You put your face in you hands, god you were so whipped.

The odds jobs around the office were cathartic, even if sometimes they made you feel more like a janitor than an intern. You hardly even realized how late it was getting until you noticed the clock read twelve thirty. It was technically the next day already.

You wondered if this was usual, all of them staying here this late. Conan staying here this late. They still had to go home, get ready for bed, they must be tired as hell. Through all the nerves and repressed horny energy you got a familiar pang of admiration for the people you worked under, their devotion fueling you further in your seemingly unhelpful busywork.

“Intern?” Your head whipped up, Conan was leaning out of the writers room with an apologetic smile. “We’re in for the long haul tonight. Could you grab us some Chinese?”

You smiled, a little better at interaction with the man then you had been previously, but still nervous out of your mind. “Of course, how many you got in there?”

Conan gave you a grateful nod. “We’ll whip up a list for you, it’s a little late to make you improvise.”

You laughed as he ducked back inside, grateful for the gesture. You knew what Conan liked from the Chinese Restaurant nearby but guessing for all the others would have been a hassle. You whipped the lint off your jeans as you stood up, walking towards the door as it opened again. He handed you a half-torn sheet of memo paper with a dozen different handwritings on it. “Hope you can read hieroglyphics.”

You laughed, taking the paper from him (mentally forcing yourself not to put any focus into the minuscule brush of your fingers) and making a show of squinting at the writing. “Not a problem.”

“Thanks, Intern. Go ahead and get out of here when you get back.” He gave you a wide smile, maybe the first you had the actual guts to look into his eyes during, and clapped you on the shoulder before heading back in. Your shoulder felt like it was prickling with static electricity. Damn. You took a deep breath and refocused yourself. Chinese food. Chinese food.

You had been in New York Traffic a million times. Two Million. God-knows-how-many-million. But you forgot, briefly, that it was past one at this point and the usual Chinese place was already closed. It closed at Twelve. Go figure. So now you were on the goddamn interstate in a traffic jam and it was already almost two thirty and- _Holy hell two thirty?? Jesus Christ_. You felt awful for the writers and you didn’t have a cell or any way to contact them. Luckily things finally went your way and you made it back to the building without too much extra issue.

It was a ghost town when you had left for the food in the first place, but now just about everyone had left. Your heart dropped when you knocked on the door to the writer’s room and were met with silence. You opened it anyway, to find empty chairs and couches. You placed the long-since cold take out on the floor and leaned against the door in defeat.

“Intern?”

You jumped when Conan called to you from down the hallway, the direction of his office.

“Jesus.” He laughed, a pleasantly bewildered look on his face. “I thought you must have gotten in a bender or something. Thought I fucking killed an Intern.”

“Traffic.” You sighed, too tired at this point to be your normal jittery self. “I’m so sorry.”

Conan shrugged. “We weren’t hurt, nothing like a starving artist, huh? Besides, now maybe they’ll let me put sirens on the company vehicles.”

You laughed and wiped your hand on your face. “Is everyone else gone?”

“Yeah, as of like thirty minutes ago.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall too. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t exited this plane of existence.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” You apologized again, feeling bad he had been waiting up on you.

Conan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, really.”

“I just feel bad that it was for nothing.” You waved defeatedly at the takeout bags.

“Like hell it was!” Conan crouched and grabbed the plastic bags, taking off back towards his office. “Come on!”

You staggered on your footing, taken by surprise. “Food’s cold!” You protested, nevertheless taking off down the hallway after him.

“Company money, Baby!” He hollered, high tailing it into his office. He placed the two bags on his desk, clearing away a few papers and a small mug full of pens. He eagerly dug into the different containers, looking at what assortment of goods he had at his disposal.

You watched from the doorway, enjoying the show, stifling a laugh has he dug into some stir fried veggies with his bare hands and made a grotesque slurping sound.

“Shit, where are my manners!” He yelled, throwing you some chopsticks and offering you a spot next to him.

You approached slowly, unsure of where to begin. You started with some generic looking noodles, giving a satisfied hum when the flavor hit the spot in your mouth. “It’s really not that bad cold.” You remarked, going in for bite two.

“Trade secret: It’s better.” Conan agreed, demolishing a wanton in one fell swoop.

You continued like this for a good ten minutes, standing there, nearly choking every time Conan made theatrics out of what he was eating. You didn’t want to eat too much, you served yourself a little bit into a now empty rice container and sat back to enjoy it as Conan started to clean up. He left the room briefly to put the leftovers in the studio fridge. You finished and tried half-heartedly to make your container into the trash can from where you sat. You failed, but it was too late to even care. You sat up to correct your poor aim when you heard a tsk from your right.

Ah, Conan had seen that. “Don’t quit your day job.” He advised, hands in his pockets.

“Is it a job if I’m not getting paid?” You smiled back, picking up the carton and throwing it out.

“It’s a shame.” Conan smiled at you. “Best damn intern we’ve got.”

Ah. Ah. You were alone. With Conan O’Brien. You’d had this dream before. How had you been acting so casually up until now? Was it the hour? You felt your cheeks flush but you managed to hold eye contact.

“Yeah?”

“No.” It was low. Like a whisper. No, no, like a breath. He took a step forward. He was too fucking tall. “You’re awful.”

He was kissing you. And god, it was good. No amount of butterflies in your stomach or fireworks or electricity would ever be able to beat the pure bliss of skin on skin and that was what you had. His lips working against yours and he crowded you, gently, back against the wall and God he was so tall. His hands were so much bigger than yours and he ran them up and down your sides and he turned his head to deepen the kiss.

Almost entirely on instinct, your greater processing ability off on cloud nine, you wrapped your legs around his waist and let him walk you the desk. Hands gripping you ass to keep you up, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over your tailbone. You keened into his mouth as he set you down, and you could feel his erection growing in his slacks.

“Been thinking about this for fuckin’ ever.” He growled, breaking the kiss to bite gently along your neck. You ran your fingers through his hair, bucking you hips p to meet his. “Didn’t want to be the creepy boss… but Jesus Christ you did not make it easy.”

You bit back a moan as he gently began to massage your boobs with his right hand, learning back a little to take you in. “You know-” pulled him into another kiss before leaning over to his ear. “I’ve had five dreams just like this.”

“Yeah?” He asked, undoing his belt.

“Yeah.” You replied, rushing to take off your own pants in tandem. Pausing as you watched him reach into his desk and pull out a condom, before quickly tearing the wrapping away and rushing to apply it. “The other fifty were a little different.”

He paused and looked up at you, boyish grin offset by his dark eyes and flushed face. He pulled his boxers down and you mentally thanked god as you watching him fumble the condom on. It’s not like you can tell inches by looking, and frankly you weren’t about to stop no matter what. But this… was going to be a good time.

“God.” He grunted, grabbing your legs and pulling you forward a bit to line you up. He froze again, looking into your eyes, waiting for that passage write.

You pulled him in and kissed him. That’s all the sign he needed.


End file.
